The woman seemed frail pressed against Mat on the horse. She hadn’t seemed frail at all when she was shredding him to ribbons earlier. He’d kept his arms wrapped tightly around her as he gripped the reins. As they closed in on the mountain range, the paths became steeper, more dangerous. He’d noticed her swaying on her feet earlier and didn’t want her pitching off the side of the saddle unexpectedly. She hadn't spoken to him once since they’d set off. He didn't know what caused the change in her demeanor, but he knew better than to ask.
Obviously, the women had been through a traumatic experience. Mat couldn't leave them in the wilderness unaccompanied again, although he was at a loss about what to do with them now. They hadn’t completed the task Lord Callum assigned them, and they couldn’t leave the other men alone with half-bloods so close nearby. Until he could think of something better, he and Gareth were heading back to the lodge to regroup. A knight would know what to do. If he wished to be one, he should take this opportunity to prove he could handle the responsibility.
He glanced over at Gareth, astride his own horse with the other woman clinging to him from behind, her knuckles bleached white from the force of her grip. They would need to stop soon so the two of them could dry off. Or at least, build a fire so the poor girl could stop shaking and shivering. Mat was impressed she had the fortitude to keep her seat for this long.
"We'll stop over that ridge and build a fire." He pointed, and Gareth nodded in response. The woman tensed in front of him, her shoulders stiff and unyielding.
"Unless you want your friend to freeze to death," he muttered in her ear quietly.
“Is that a threat?” she asked in a low hiss, and Mat jerked involuntarily.
“Of course not,” he said, shaking off the accusation. “Just an observation.”
She turned to face her friend, and he felt her relax against him. Something dark churned in the pit of Mat's stomach at her reaction. He didn't like how easy it was for the women to think the worst of them. It meant they had been shown too much cruelty and not enough care. Mat would make sure they felt safe again, somehow. Too soon, she twisted in front of him to dismount.
"Wait,” Mat said.
She stopped moving as he swung his legs to the ground and reached up to grip her around the waist. She recoiled from his touch as he picked her up and lifted her down onto solid footing.
"The path is steep here," he said in explanation, searching her eyes for some clue as to her identity.
They revealed nothing.
She turned from him to meet her friend as Gareth tied the horses off against a young sapling in the glade.
"What is your full name, sir knight?"
Her question surprised him as it rolled off her tongue in a clear southern accent. Too proper, too formal, less of a brogue than he was accustomed to hearing from the simple folk up north. Did she come from the royal court? The southern palace was leagues away. Too far for a noblewoman to risk traveling on foot. Then again, she was only in her underclothes; perhaps she was a courtesan.
There was no knight among them. Just a bladesmith and a soldier. Before he could correct her, Gareth laughed derisively. Mat glared at him, watching as the man pulled an apple out of a saddle bag and plunged his hunting knife into the ripe flesh.
"Him, a knight? Hilarious." Gareth grinned wickedly, as Mat squirmed under his arrogant scrutiny. The woman looked between them with those bright, blue eyes. They were so clear and piercing Mat swore she saw right through him, right into the places he kept hidden. He’d never felt more unnerved than he did under her intense study.
"What, pray tell, is so funny about it?" she asked, her tone suggesting Gareth had been laughing at her. Mat couldn't help the satisfaction warming his chest as Gareth squirmed beneath her ire. The man opened his mouth to explain, but no words came out. Gareth was infinitely more bearable when robbed of his ability to speak.
"He means because I'm bastard-born, M'lady," Mat told her with a grin, glad to have the upper hand back. He struck the flint again, and the tiny spark became a flame. Soon enough, a small fire grew. Meager, but warm enough for Gareth and the lady's friend to keep the chill at bay until they could dry off.
"Not M’lady. Liz." His eyes widened as she offered her name. He couldn't call her by her given name. It was too familiar. Too casual to be allowed by the rules of society.
"Elisabetta." Her nose wrinkled in disgust. "Most people call me Lisbet, but I would like it if you called me Liz. You have stabbed a man, rescued my friend, and delivered us from danger. I think we may have gotten off on the wrong foot, so to speak." She sat, very straight and still, right there in the dirt next to him. Once seated, she fidgeted with the way her skirt lay about her legs. Surprisingly she wasn’t glaring at him. He wondered what she’d been thinking about during the ride that had softened her temper toward him.
"Matioch Steele, soon to be a soldier in the legion at Fangorn Keep. You may call me Mat, if it pleases you." He gave a short bow of his head, and she gifted him with a smile. Small as it was, suddenly he couldn't breathe. He coughed to cover the sudden awkward shifting of air in his throat. She shivered, and he pulled his worn, wool cloak from his shoulders and wrapped it around her. At least it could lend some warmth and preserve her modesty. He realized now, watching her wide eyes as he fastened it around her neck, the lines of propriety had blurred into near nothingness.
He touched her too often, too familiarly, and used her given name as if they were equals. Some married couples did not speak to each other so casually. Gareth's eyes burned dark across the fire at them.
Mat cleared his throat and sat back, creating some distance between them. "It isn't much."
"It's more kindness than I've been shown in far too long." Her eyes were suddenly so lonely. She twisted a strand of her hair between two fingers in deep concentration. The curl left behind dark stains on her skin. His eyes flicked over her hairline and caught the glint of copper hidden near her left ear. Mat’s heart hammered in his chest and he schooled his features into a bland expression. A southern accent, fine clothes, half-blood bounty hunters, and copper hair? His outlandish theories were getting the better of him, surely.
“You have something in your hair,” he muttered, reaching up and plucking a stray burr from the mess of coils knotted beyond repair in long strands. Her moonlight pale skin flushed pink, visible even in the shadows of the tree canopy. She opened her mouth slightly, a question on the tip of her tongue. Her eyes, now soft and liquescent, raised to his face briefly. She bit her bottom lip, and Mat felt a grin curl onto his lips as he watched her struggle not to ask.
"If you're a—" She stopped and his grin deepened as he noticed her frustration mounting. "What I mean to say is, if you don't have a—" She bit the words back abruptly, her lofty manners shackling her curiosity.
"Bastard. You can say it. It no longer offends me as it did when I was young. Ask what you'd like." His words came out in a rush, on a hot chuckle as her brow furrowed in irritation at his teasing.
"Well, I thought bastards had no surnames, but you do. Where did 'Steele' come from?" she asked.
He leaned back against the base of a tree, scratching the back of his neck sheepishly. "My mother. Her father was a blacksmith, and common folk are often named for their trades. Once I accept my commission I suppose 'Steele' will have another meaning.” He eyed the simple hilt of the sword strapped to his belt. “Though, it isn’t proper for a lady to know such things, is it?"